Power and Control
by cherry cup
Summary: George Wickham finds a kindred spirit in Mary Bennet. Wickham/Mary.
1. Chapter 1

**Hi! I've been meaning to publish a second story ever since I started my Wuthering Heights fanfic, but I didn't have much courage. I do love P&P too and I especially love George Wickham. Mary Bennet is also a fascinating character. I have changed some things from canon (Mrs. Philips' dinner in particular), but I hope it's not a problem. My take on the characters might also stray from established interpretations. The title of this story comes from the song_ Power & Control_, by Marina and the Diamonds (it makes a lot of sense in the context of the story) I hope you enjoy my attempt and bear in mind English is not my first language but I try to be as correct as possible!  
><strong>

**Also, the first lines of dialogue are roughly taken from the 1980s adaptation of P&P.**

* * *

><p><em>Chapter 1<em>

"You must find that an interesting book."

George Wickham addressed this to the only young lady of the group who was not looking at him.

What he truly meant was: _You must find that an interesting book to be ignoring __**me**__._

The reader had not even heard him. She had to be nudged by one of her sisters in order to look up.

"Mary! Mr. Wickham is speaking to you!"

She blinked, like a fish caught out of water, and turned to Mr. Denny.

"No, _that'_s Mr. Wickham, you silly goose!" the sister corrected her.

He coughed and repeated his question, feeling by now quite embarrassed.

"Oh. No, not particularly interesting," she replied absently.

Wickham swallowed thickly and smiled a gracious smile. He was not one to be defeated easily.

"Is it a novel?"

Perhaps it was not profitable to follow this line of questioning, but her indifference irked him. No female around these parts was insensible to his charms.

"No, of course not," she replied sternly and then, without the least warning, went right back to reading, as if nothing had disturbed her.

Wickham knew that in every family there had to be one young lady who was plain and stupid. And truly, the girl confirmed his knowledge. Bespectacled, careless with her looks, tasteless in matters of dress (her bonnet was utterly atrocious, to say nothing of her boots), dull and wane; she represented her dour spinster fate with great accuracy. But usually, the mousy ones, the ones doomed to solitude, loved him best. They clung to him even more, knowing full well they had no hope of reciprocation.

Why should this one be any different?

"Ah, ladies of refinement and accomplishment," he said, in order not to look like a fool. The younger sisters did notice his blunder. They beamed at him and showered him with their youthly delights. _They_ were clearly not indifferent. The eldest were quite friendly too, if more restrained. They were very attractive to boot. Elizabeth, in particular, held a certain charm. He was very pleased, overall, to have met the Bennets. He was indebted to Denny for that and he could not complain.

Except that, the gentleman escorting them, a fellow called Collins who was a clergyman of some sort, insisted on trailing after them. Not only was he a bore and a pedant, but the plain one seemed to like him. She walked close to him, and though she still kept her head in her book, he noticed her spying on Collins from time to time.

_I suppose they are a match_, he thought maliciously, but still, he couldn't quite swallow the idea that she was more partial to a dullard with bad breath and a weak jaw. How could he, the handsome and well-spoken George Wickham, be compared to a fool like that?

* * *

><p>That evening, Denny asked him jovially what he thought of the young women he had met. They were sitting together in his rooms at the Meryton inn, killing time with a game of cards and some brandy. Wickham knew his friend wanted his honest opinion.<p>

"I liked them well enough. Good-looking and amiable, all of them. Well, except one."

Denny raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, right. Don't bother about that. Mary Bennet likes _no one_ and no one likes her."

Wickham put down a card and smiled wryly.

"But I believe she likes someone, after all. Mr. Collins."

Denny laughed. "Really? Well, she'll be disappointed. I'm sure I've heard he is supposed to marry one of the eldest."

"Not Elizabeth, I hope?"

"I don't know, but if it is Elizabeth you like best, you had better pay your attentions soon and fast."

Wickham smiled uneasily. A feat not so easily accomplished. It seemed Elizabeth had already been acquainted with Darcy. Their meeting today had been interrupted by none other than Bingley and Darcy riding into town like masters on a private estate. Darcy had, predictably, turned a cold shoulder and refused to pay him any heed, but he had saluted the Bennets and his friend, Bingley, had been very warm to the sisters. He could not guess how much Elizabeth knew of that affair. It was to his interest that she be ignorant of his past. Otherwise, he had no hope of winning her over.

"We are invited to dine with them tomorrow at Mrs. Philips'. There's your chance to woo her," Denny told him with a sly wink.

* * *

><p>Wickham entered Mrs. Philips' parlour with a confident strut, ready to gain as many good favours as possible. He noticed that some important-looking matrons had been gathered for the present occasion and he knew all too well that the way to universal acceptance was palming as many of these octogenarians as possible.<p>

He did not forget to compliment the hostess herself and profess humility at her invitation.

Mrs. Philips was delighted.

"You are too kind, Mr. Wickham."

"I believe it is you who have been gracious enough to allow me to partake in such fine society."

He knew the lines by heart, lines which he had learned from infancy. The only access into the world of the polished and refined was through carefully crafted words. _Don't sound too obsequious, but make sure you flatter them. _

All the while, he smiled and kissed hands and bowed down to whisper in the old ladies' ears and shook hands with their young, rosy-cheeked grandsons, but he felt empty, utterly empty and devoid of any kinship with these people.

The Bennet sisters were a respite. He had found from an early age that a beautiful woman, even a modestly pretty one, could cheer him up greatly.

Elizabeth Bennet had obviously dressed with care this evening and her eyes sparkled with delight upon seeing him. It would not be very hard to sway her; that is, if she knew nothing of him. And judging by her mien, she did not.

They had not sat down for long together, when he heard an awful music coming from the other end of the room.

He turned his head and he saw the reader from the day before; plain, insufferable Mary Bennet.

She was playing the piano and she was utterly dreadful at it. Perhaps not dreadful in technique, but the execution was horrendous and he ought to have known, for he had spent his childhood listening to Anne Darcy playing and she was a proficient. Much like Georgiana. But that was another story.

He couldn't help smirking at her obvious incompetence. He even felt a little gratified. It always fell on the plain ones to be "accomplished"; that is to embroider cushions, play quadrilles, paint insipid landscapes and speak mediocre Latin. If they couldn't be pretty, they had to be useful. It seemed this girl was neither.

Elizabeth apologized on behalf of her sister.

"Mary is a great study of music, but I do not know whether she is a great performer."

And yet, she kept on playing, for all throughout his conversation with Elizabeth, he heard the same dreadful music.

It was, after all, to his advantage that Darcy had ignored him the other day, for Elizabeth was from the beginning sympathetic towards him. She did not seem to like Darcy at all. And when she heard his tale, she grew quite outraged with the wealthy gentleman.

Wickham sighed in that practised way that always earned him a pardon from his regiment commander. "I suppose I cannot blame him for wishing me gone from his life. After all, it was his father who made the mistake of loving me more. Jealousy is only natural."

He was impressed with his own choice of words. Elizabeth and her natural charms inspired him. No one could say Wickham did not work hard for what he wanted. He had decided he wanted her affections, and he was determined to obtain them.

"How abominable! To refuse you your rights! To cast you off like a stranger!"

"It's a good thing I'm not very proud. Else I would have suffered the slight much worse. But as you can see, I recovered. All that ever kept me at Pemberley was Mr. Darcy, the senior. With his passing away, I was free to go. And I must say, I like my present situation and company much better."

Elizabeth smiled with great warmth.

"You are lucky your character is sound, for I don't know if I would have borne the injustice. But I am pleased that you are here among us."

"So am I."

He did not fear that Darcy would ever shed light upon the truth of the matter. He was a proud, fastidious man who never went out of his way to correct rumours. For years now he had told the same tale, and never had anyone contradicted him.

So much time had passed, he almost liked to think he was telling the truth. After all, Darcy deserved the slander.

Having so far secured Elizabeth's good opinion, he had next to find out how much she was worth. She was the daughter of a gentleman, that much he knew, but would she have a nice sum attached to her pretty face?

If it turned out she was rather poor, he would not mind too much. He was a democrat and he liked to make love to all the ladies who enticed him. The only difference was, he would settle down with a wealthy one.

He was enjoying the evening greatly. Kitty and Lydia (he had memorized their names with some difficulty) dragged him away from Elizabeth at length, but he did not mind, for he knew absence made the heart grow fonder.

The younger sisters wanted him and Denny to dance with them, which seemed rather absurd since there was no music to dance to. Mary Bennet was still playing her awful church hymns, or whatever they were.

As he drew close to the piano, he noticed that he was not the only one who disliked the playing. Some of the young men and ladies sitting in the vicinity threw her reproachful glances and wrinkled their noses. Even the elderly mothers frowned with boredom.

_So, why is she still singing if no one likes it?_

He watched her face more carefully, but she was still the same absent-eyed creature he had met the day before. Her indifference reigned supreme and she played as thoroughly she read.

And then it struck him.

_She does not care._

She most likely thought her playing was excellent, judging from her supercilious expression. And she did not care a iota that no one else shared her opinion.

Wickham did not know whether to be annoyed or impressed.

Lydia begged her sister to play a jig or something more lively to amuse them, but Mary sniffed and decreed:

"There are at least two more movements left!"

So they all had to wait for her to finish her song, and only then did she deign, with a great heavy sigh, to play a weak little tune.

"Mind you, I take very little enjoyment in such trivial things," she spoke haughtily.

Wickham shook his head in amusement.

_She acts as if she were the prettiest, most accomplished and wonderful person in the room._

As the floor was cleared and the pairs were formed, he also remarked how much better her playing was when she had to perform something she did not like. It was rather ironic.

But oddly enough, he knew on a base level, that he had met a kindred spirit. Someone like him. Someone who was devoid of empathy towards other people. Someone who thrived when she was made to act against her will. Someone selfish.

If only she had been prettier, she would have been just as successful as he.

But no, she was stuck with her poor features and sour personality.

Otherwise, they might have been cut from the same cloth.

* * *

><p>As the evening drew to a close, he found little occasion to speak to Elizabeth again. Lydia had accosted him completely, and while he liked her well enough, he was not sure what to do with her. She was a child, by all means, and her womanly shapes could not hide that simple fact.<p>

He did have occasion to witness Mr. Collins acting like a fool at the whist table. Plain Mary Bennet trailed after him towards the carriage, no doubt, hoping to catch his attention. Her blind confidence prevented her from seeing that her older sisters were much more desirable to the oafish cousin.

He did not pity her.

If she was like him, if she was _heartless_, then she did not need his pity. She would go on in life with the belief that she was the best creature there ever was.

Yet, it still did not sit well with him that she had ignored him.

He might afford to act the way he did, but a female?

On his way back to the inn, he wondered what it would be like to win _her_ over. It would be like a match against himself. Well, he had never shied away from a challenge.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello again! Here is the second chapter, which I hope you will like. I was very grateful and surprised by the number of reviews and wish to thank all of you for your support. I'm glad you like the idea. Thank you to the anonymous reviewers: Guest, mef, Andi, kgirl21, Guest2, kk. I'd like to add that from here on we are moving into AU territory, meaning there will be only some references made to canon, but otherwise, the events are fabricated and completely different. Please share your thoughts!**_  
><em>

* * *

><p><em>Chapter 2<em>

Wickham knew a thing or two about small towns. He had always lived in their vicinity, had always seemed to gravitate towards them. When he had been given opportunity to escape from Lambton, he had run. But one way or another, he always seemed to return here, to the festering seed of gossip and paltriness.

Meryton was no different. On the outside it looked quiet and peaceful, but soon enough, he found himself embroiled in rumours and rivalries to match a courthouse. The townsmen were exceedingly curious of his history and concocted theories at every corner, and the officers were jealous of him and his vast superiority.

Another sort of man might have grown a little anxious.

His bread and butter, however, had always been rumours and the spreading of rumours. No fabrication or enhancement of his personal account could shock him more than his own fabrications and enhancements. Elizabeth Bennet would, no doubt, be asked to recount his story and he had made sure it would be a good one.

Yet, he was not entirely safe. This, after all, was a period of trial, during which the Merytons would decide whether they liked him or not.

So far, suspicion or contempt had not crossed their minds, but nor had they accepted him completely.

The only danger seemed to be the officers, who did not appreciate his monopoly on most of the young ladies of Hertfordshire.

Could he help it?

Certainly not. And he was not about to deprive himself of the simple joys of conquests and flirtations.

But he could appease them by showing a more charitable inclination. And what better way to do so than appear partial towards a certain young woman upon which no rivalry or conflict rested?

The idea had remained fixed in his head ever since the dinner at Mrs. Philips'. It was a sensible diversion. No officer would resent him for approaching Mary Bennet.

So far, all rumours in town and beyond confirmed what he already knew; that she was a haughty and unreasonable young woman of ill talents.

Left and right, people confessed they avoided her society whenever they could. The ladies could not abide by her righteous pride and the young men grew bored of her long-winded speeches on duty and religion.

But instead of turning him averse, this fearful reputation spurred him on.

He imagined the look on the young men's faces when he went up to her, by his own volition, and engaged her in conversation. It was strangely satisfying, almost like attaching oneself to a lost cause.

* * *

><p>"My heart was and still is fixed on taking the cloth. Had I not been impeded, I would have been writing my sermons in Kympton and not enjoying your company here. And although this present situation is most delightful, I confess with indiscretion that I would have preferred that quiet life, but..."<p>

His voice trailed off in melancholy. "It cannot be anymore."

The ladies around him sighed dramatically. Maria Lucas, in particular, seemed affected by his mask of sadness.

But he aimed his darts in a different direction. Mary Bennet was positioned in close vicinity to his circle. She was standing next to Lady Lucas, who was speaking with Mr. Collins about some ordinary domestic troubles. She seemed engrossed in their conversation, but judging by the furrowing of her brow, she may have heard his speech too.

When the rest of the women had dispersed, he drew near her imperceptibly, on the pretense that he wanted to listen to Lady Lucas and Mr. Collins. From the corner of his eye, he observed her for a moment. She was, if possible, uglier than she had been at Mrs. Philips'. Her glasses sat precariously on her oily little nose, making her look like a keen farm rat. Her lacklustre hair was pulled tightly behind her ears, draining the colour from her face. She had not been able to fashion any curls to frame her face, like the rest of the young ladies. Her ugliness was brave and open to the world. Her posture was straight and unyielding. If she felt the burden of her looks, she did not show it.

He should have been repelled. He had little tolerance for such gross imperfection. He had rejected scores of women ten times her beauty. He had mocked the belles of the ball who had not risen to his demands. And yet, just as he had felt at Mrs. Philips', he found he was unable to pronounce her negligible.

There was something about her that called to him, a revulsion that was spellbinding. He saw himself in that revulsion.

He coughed and bent towards her shoulder. He needed to engage her in the object of her interest.

"I envy Mr. Collins his service. He seems a happy, generous man."

The girl turned towards him with the air of someone caught red-handed, but her face betrayed little of that disturbance.

She blinked, almost as if she doubted his being there.

"Mr. Collins?" she asked askance.

"Your esteemed cousin."

She affected nonchalance. "Yes, of course. But why are you telling me this, Sir?"

Wickham raised an eyebrow. "Does he not live with your family?"

Mary seemed puzzled by his questions, but her haughty demeanour concealed her unease.

"He does, but I do not profess to know him."

Wickham smiled. "I hear you are a good observer of character, Miss Bennet. I thought you might have insight into his."

Mary was by now quite startled, but had a firm talent for the art of indifference which guided her to safety.

"I suppose I _am_ an adequate observer, but I fail to see why you wish to know my opinion."

Wickham shrugged in a self-deprecating manner. "I once dreamt of a life like his, in the bosom of the church. I am hungry for a glance into what could have been my own fate."

Mary eyed him with distrust. "You are wearing a militia uniform."

"Yes. Hence, what my fate _could have been_. No doubt you've heard my speech to the young ladies."

"No." Her cheeks were tinged with a fading pink. "Pardon, but I do not speak with strangers."

She meant to walk away, but he turned on his heels and blocked her way.

"George Wickham. We have been introduced before. In fact, the previous time, you were also ignorant of me."

Mary fumbled with her gloves. He gathered she was not used to young men, especially handsome, uniform-clad young men, seeking her out and introducing themselves _twice_.

"Ah. Very well, then. Mr. Wickham," she curtsied reluctantly, as if she were doing him a favour. As if she were a beautiful rich heiress who had deigned to receive his attentions.

She looked over his shoulder towards other circles she might join.

Wickham sensed her discomfort, but he was not about to let her go so easily.

"I also attended Mrs. Philips' dinner. You played for us, as I recall."

He attached no adjective to the last statement.

Mary livened to some degree. "Yes, I do remember. I played fairly well, but was forced to perform out of my range by my relations."

_Relations_, he chuckled to himself. _She would make Catherine de Bourgh __pause__._

"Well, I am glad you were forced, because otherwise, we would have had no music to dance to."

"Oh. You danced with my sister, did you not?" she asked, comprehension illuminating her features.

"Yes, your youngest."

"Ah, I see."

He smiled benevolently. "Yes?"

"You wish me to speak to her on your behalf," she said knowingly. "You are not the first to approach me. I will tell you what I've told all of them. I will not encourage my sister to sin. She is very young. Speak to my father if your intentions are honest."

Wickham raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"Oh, but you've quite misunderstood me. I meant nothing of the kind. I did not approach you for your sister."

He could see the confusion spreading on her face. She frowned and crossed her hands behind her back. "Well, you ought to have said so, Mr. Wickham. And now you may bid me adieu for I must join my family."

Wickham smirked as she stepped around him warily. She looked like a weary socialite who had been asked to one too many dances.

"Miss Bennet?" he called after her.

Mary turned her shoulder towards him expectantly.

"Will you be playing for us again?"

Mary pursed her lips. "I shan't presently."

"Pity. Music is the only luxury I permit myself," he said, although his perfume and linen spoke otherwise. "When might an occasion arise?"

She took a step further away from him. "I am sure the pianoforte shall be applied to in the course of the evening."

"Not by you, though?"

They stared at each other for a brief moment. Wickham's gaze was traitorously sweet. He knew the effect it could achieve on a lady with weak knees. Mary's gaze was unflinching at first, but then, by degrees, grew softer.

At first, it seemed he had accomplished what he wanted. She was _affected_. But slowly, he realized she had not been taken in. Quite the contrary. She had seen into the void.

Wickham felt a strange tightening in his muscles.

"No, not by me," she replied sternly and before he could put in another word, she stormed away, the hem of her dress flying behind her.

* * *

><p>The rest of the evening at the Lucases he spent in conversation with Elizabeth Bennet and Charlotte Lucas. Elizabeth had not been induced to any dwindling of sentiment. Her warmth was palpable. She introduced him to her good friend, the elder Miss Lucas, who was quite banal and plain in her features, but very amiable in manners. Her ugliness, however, did not work the same strange fascination on him as Mary's. Charlotte Lucas did not have that strange bloodless aura, the nature of the peripheral.<p>

Wickham had grown in the periphery of all good things, just close enough to reach them and steal a taste. Even kings could be born in the periphery. It was not merely a case of social standing. It was a malady, a little shadow with which you were brought into the world. It made you hard and proud and constantly afraid you might lose the small footing you had achieved. Charlotte did not have it. Mary Bennet did.

There was dancing to be had, but the player was an indistinct young lady of the neighbourhood. He danced with Elizabeth two dances, one with Charlotte, one with the fourth Bennet girl whose name had once more slipped his mind, and one with Mary King, a wealthy young woman who lived in town.

He had always loved dancing. Not because the bodies were brought together in motion, but because his own body could soar and fly. He was a selfish dancer; he cared little if his partner enjoyed his movements. He was immersed in his own being, although his mouth spoke the same pleasantries and his eyes caressed the same pretty faces.

And as he spun Charlotte around the room, he let himself believe that he was not playing any games, that he was honest for once. Not honest to her, but honest to himself.

When the movement required her to take the hand of the gentleman next to him, Wickham saw past her, across the room. Mary Bennet was standing against the wall, her head bent down in a book.

_Look up. Look at me_, he urged with his mind.

As he moved in a circle with the other revelers, he kept chanting to himself: _Look at me, look at me, look at me..._

He tried to catch sight of her each time he reached the same spot on the floor, and each time, she was reading.

Wickham ground his teeth. You could not ignore him. He was not to be ignored. He was a dark sun that demanded worship. But if a common young woman thought _she_ was a dark sun, how could he compete?

And then, when he had lost hope, she looked up. Her eyes roamed over the room absently.

Her glasses had almost fallen off her nose. Her ugliness observed the crowd calmly.

At length, she glanced at the couples dancing.

Wickham smirked and bowed his head at her almost imperceptibly. It was enough for her to _see_.

She quickly looked down into her book again, but not long after, she moved away from the wall altogether, as if it was no longer safe.

Wickham tasted victory, but it was small and inconsequential. No, he wanted _more_. After all, a child of the periphery always did.


	3. Chapter 3

**Hi, I'm back with chapter three, which I hope you will like! Thank you immensely for all your reviews and for giving this story a chance.**

** I am grateful to the anonymous reviewers: C5 (thanks, well, Wickham's POV is largely dominant but we do get glimpses of Mary here and there, and in the future they will be more prominent), Guest1 (thanks, I like that too), Guest2 (thank you, very interesting review, you bring up some compelling points about Mary's uniqueness and I am very glad Wickham's voice is believably detached and desensitized), Guest3 (haha, yes, in a way, their union would validate both their twisted worldviews), Bil (thanks a lot!), kgirl21 (thanks!).**

**I hope to hear your thoughts!**

* * *

><p><em>Chapter 3<em>

A dull week passed without events to challenge Wickham's bonhomie, but neither to increase it. The only thing of remote interest was a dream he had one night; it concerned Georgiana. He almost found himself recounting it to Denny over breakfast, but he stopped short, because he felt it would not really produce the right effect on his audience. He required a lady with whom to parley on the notion of dreams, particularly romantic dreams. He could imagine telling Elizabeth Bennet, or Maria Lucas, or even Mary King about it, but not Denny.

And he would say: "I dreamt of Miss Darcy last night. She was scolding me as usual, in her haughty manner, but I did not mind. In fact, I believe I wished her all the happiness in the world and meant it. It's no good keeping a heavy heart. Better to forgive and forget, don't you agree, Miss-whoever-is-listening?"

In truth, all he could remember from the dream was trailing small kisses down Georgiana's white arm while they sat in the shade of her favourite poplar. A memory of some years past, refurbished into a nightly distraction.

"I hear we are to be invited to dine with the Bennets soon," Denny told him during the breakfast of his almost-confession.

Wickham had hoped and expected such an outcome. "To be sure, the Lucases couldn't have us all to themselves. They only possess two daughters."

"I see your head is rather in the clouds about one or two Bennet," Denny alluded, not unkindly.

"You are mistaken, my head is fixed and firm on my shoulders. Would I could let it fly away from me! But alas, I am a man of steadfast reason."

"I don't doubt it, but you must admit you have been fairly successful with Eliza Bennet."

"I've been fairly successful with a great deal of ladies."

"I know, and it's quite aggravating," Denny laughed. "We're almost _hoping_ you settle on her."

"Humph. I should have you all pay me in guineas for my sacrifice."

"By the by, Hartley tells me he saw you talking to Mary Bennet intently at Lucas Lodge."

Wickham paused in the laborious process of cleaning his fingernails with a wet napkin and looked up amused.

"Intently?"

"Well, he saw you being far too gracious to one so rude."

"And?"

"Nothing, but you should have told me you're inclined towards charity."

"It is actually an act of kindness towards _you_, you ungrateful dog."

"Me?!" Denny exclaimed.

"Why, yes, you and all the officers. I've seen how they turn up their collars when I enter the room. They require me to renounce my supremacy over the female sex. And I am not so selfish as to deprive them of their fair share of conquests. I can entertain myself with the neighbourhood spinster every once in a while."

Denny laughed good-humouredly.

"Only you could possibly concoct such a thing, Wickham!"

"Concoct? Oh no, I verily declare I am the regiment's anointed saint. But pray, beware when I return to my female horde. For I divide my time equally between beauty and ugliness."

"You mean between Eliza and her sister?"

But Wickham remained cryptically silent, licking the remains of marmalade from his bread with delight.

"Poor Mary Bennet," Denny sighed, "she is pitifully ugly, isn't she? At least if she were sweet and gentle, like Miss Lucas. That lady is nothing to look at, but her lovely manners make up for any faults in appearance."

Wickham shrugged. "An ugly girl who is mean-hearted upsets the order. She's got nothing to fear and nothing to hide."

Denny put down his cup of tea and leveled him up with a queer look.

"That's a funny thing to say."

"Is it?"

"But truly, how can you endure it? No man can have patience with a creature like that. And if you do it for the sake of appearances, you'll tire of it soon."

Wickham listened and smiled. All such advice and warning only made him more certain of his course of action.

"I see you are determined to cause some mischief with the Bennets," Denny declared.

"Only if you'll join me."

* * *

><p>And so the two friends transpired to the Bennet household one cold but clear Wednesday afternoon, preparing not only for the ladies of the house, but for the vigorous and verbose Mr. Collins as well.<p>

The man was in high spirits and believed that the invitation had been given in his honour, so that the officers might enjoy his company. Said officers did not pay him much heed but throughout dinner, Mr. Collins addressed them numerous questions bound to both irritate and confuse them. Questions of station, rank and elevation, "queries that Lady Catherine herself would condescend to demand". To their credit, Wickham and Denny rose to the occasion admirably.

This effort to be guardedly civil only raised them in the eyes of the ladies, who all disliked Mr. Collins.

All, except Mary.

Her eyes and ears were alert to anything Mr. Collins had to say and though she neither frowned nor smiled, her complexion was tense, suggesting involvement in the clergyman's well-being. She had a curious way of showing preference; like an embittered general, admitting long-last defeat. As if she resented Mr. Collins for exercising this influence on her.

Her longing was brutal and stern, almost like no longing at all. It unsettled one with its depth and abrasiveness. And it was a hard thing to bear, for it made her features ever coarser. _She's got nothing to fear and nothing to hide._ Vulnerable, yet implacable.

She had pulled away all hair from her face once more, and her roots were red, as her cheeks were sunken. One could see how the tender flesh at her ears begged to be released, but the knot at her nape was unforgiving.

Wickham numbered such details with ease. His eye was cursed to catch these imperfections, these careless dabs which God had made on the frail canvas of humanity. He fancied himself an artist in this regard. As he made conversation with Mrs. Bennet, he noticed her yellowed teeth and her crested lips, and Jane Bennet, for all her childish beauty, possessed a fat little chin that would no doubt grow to be as large as her father's. Kitty's legs were too short for her own good, and the youngest, Lydia, had an excitable nature which sallowed her complexion and made the dark circles under her eyes appear more pronounced. It was distasteful in one so young. Eliza's pretty features, too, were marred by a pockmarked skin and rudely shaped hair parting.

_I divide my time equally between beauty and ugliness. _

No doubt, the girls were lovely still, but their ugliness, since it was well-hidden, lurked just beneath the roundness of their cheeks. Whereas Mary's ugliness was pure, unveiled. There was nothing lurking under it, and nothing above. You would find no hidden attraction, no diamond in the rough. _Only the periphery. _

Wickham glanced at her when others could not see him. He was discreet about it, so discreet that he fancied Mary herself had not noticed.

Yet, she had.

They had been seated across from each other at the table; not directly opposite, but in each other's line of sight. So when, towards the end of dinner he put down his goblet and chanced to look up at her, she turned just then and their eyes met quite forcefully.

A quaint little smile appeared at the corner of his lips and his eyes flashed humorously with reminiscence of their previous encounter at Lucas Lodge. He raised an eyebrow, daring her to reply to his look.

Mary's hand paused over the cutting knife. She touched its sharp edge, one finger poised on the hilt undecidedly. She regarded him with perfect tranquility, but when she raised the knife her grip was not entirely steady.

Wickham smiled.

"May I assist you in carving the meat, Miss Bennet?"

He asked this question very quietly, looking down at her hands.

"No. Thank you." The words were wrenched out of her, polite but vicious.

"Mr. Collins. You are sitting closer to Miss Bennet. I'm afraid she needs assistance with her meat."

Mary blanched and almost gave a start, but luckily, Mr. Collins was much too preoccupied in his discourse with Jane to bother.

Mary did not look at Wickham again.

* * *

><p>In the evening, the cards and game tables were drawn and the ladies took turns to entertain the gentlemen; Mr. Denny was doted on by Kitty and Lydia, Mr. Collins by Jane and Mary, and Mr. Wickham by Lizzie and Mrs. Bennet.<p>

Mr. Bennet had wisely retired to his study.

But Mr. Collins demanded "Miss Eliza's attention too" and so there were various changes made among the couples and there was constant movement about the room as one lady switched from one group to another.

Mrs. Bennet claimed to be vexed by all this "running about", but she coaxed her daughters to and fro with impressive agility; in particular, she advised Lydia to present herself to all the gentlemen since she was the liveliest and most attractive. Given such encouragement by _Mamma_, she was loud and boisterous. Wickham pitied the man who would one day wed her.

Mary attempted to read to Mr. Collins, but availed herself of the task when he turned up his nose and said,

"I do believe, child, that the officers are in need of more enlightenment than I am."

So, she remained seated next to him, reading by candlelight to herself. She hoped he might espy over her shoulder the theological treatise she was perusing with some diligence. How frosty her looks turned when he rose and went to sit next to Kitty and Lydia instead!

Someone else took his place.

"Good evening, Miss Bennet, Miss Bennet."

Wickham began a polite conversation with Jane while Mary turned her back further and buried herself in the yellowed pages.

Mrs. Bennet, however, required Jane's presence immediately, because Kitty and Lydia were being rude to poor Mr. Collins, and for a short while and the first time that evening, Wickham was alone with Mary.

"Now, Miss Bennet, will you speak with me?"

"I beg pardon, I am not bound for conversation at the moment." Her eyes followed the lines of her book conscientiously.

"You aren't upset about my silly words at the dinner table, are you?"

"No, Sir."

"I would truly despair if you found me ill-mannered."

"I do not know about your manners."

"Oh, but I try hard to improve them with good company," he replied, inclining his head.

"That is fine," she muttered inattentively, although he could see that her fingers turned the pages too quickly. She betrayed herself in her hands.

"Mr. Collins, I daresay, should learn to be a better gentleman."

Mary clicked her jaw and gripped the spine of the leather-bound volume with unnecessary prowess. "That is an unjust remark. He is a perfect gentleman."

"Perhaps…but to walk away from your side and leave you with me was careless of him."

He spoke slowly, languidly, as if pouring wine into a cup.

"You present no danger."

"Indeed? Then I have failed."

Mary looked up for the first time, her eyes adjusting to his vibrant presence with some effort.

"You speak a great deal of nonsense."

"Ah, I suppose I do. But thank you for showing me your face at last. Why, I do believe the candlelight is your best light. It renders your features soft."

Mary's shoulders protested at his facetious words. They worked like small blades underneath her skin. The volume leaned against her chest precariously. She set it down in her lap and extended her hand towards the candlewick. Her fingers reached out and seized the flame between thumb and forefinger.

Wickham opened his mouth, closed it and swallowed. He had no chance to stop her.

A black smear of cinder darkened her fingers. She blew on them to cool them off. But already red blisters were forming on her skin.

In that moment, he was seized by a mad desire to yank those fingers and press them to his lips, kiss them foolishly, taste the ashes.

He reached out impulsively and touched the sleeve of her dress.

Mary withdrew imperiously, placing the book between them.

Wickham faltered, his face a mask of calmness, collapsing on a turbulent sea. She must have noticed he was not entirely composed, for she threw him a hard look meant to intimidate him further.

But the more she gazed at him, the more strength he regained.

With no dinner table between them, their eyes met directly and their messages were clear:

Mary's seemed to say: _I know you._ _Stay away from me._

And Wickham's: _I know you._ _I will not._

Lizzie soon interrupted their brief exchange and no more was said and done about the matter. No one noticed Mary's fingers, or the burnt candle.

Lizzie and Wickham had an amusing chat on the subject of Mr. Darcy again. They wasted no time in enumerating his faults with the shared knowledge of friends, but as Lizzie was apt to be less critical than he, the subject moved to that of the ball that was soon to be held at Netherfield Park and she wondered, spiritedly, what his intentions to that event might be.

He replied with jolly humour that he would not be prevented from showing his face, but rather it was the guilty party who should tremble before exposure.

Something in his manner must have failed to convince, however, for Lizzie smiled kindly and said,

"Aye, you speak well. But I see you are troubled by the notion. I can understand it gives you displeasure to think of meeting Darcy again."

Wickham stretched his gloved fingers and clenched his fists, pulling them at his sides. He felt his fingers were burning. His confidence and gaiety were marred every time his eyes landed on the burnt candle across the room, sitting idly by Mary's elbow.

"Indeed, I cannot profess joy at our inevitable reunion. But I hope he will retain dignity. I _do_ hope he will not succumb to the passions of the heart."

As he said this, he clenched his fist again. He could not get rid of the singeing pain in his fingers.

Mary never once looked up from her book for as long as he sat in the parlour that evening.

The victory, tonight, was hers.


	4. Chapter 4

**Hello, it's been a while! I hope you are still reading and thank you for your reviews, I am very grateful! Thank you to the anonymous reviewers Guest and yo. **

**I admit this chapter is a bit different from the rest, in that it is going in a slightly darker, more mature direction, but seeing as this is mostly told from Wickham's perspective, it's to be expected, I think. **

**I hope you enjoy and share your thoughts!**

* * *

><p><em>Chapter 4<em>

The night sky was speckled with the most horrid little stars. He had never taken a liking to the desolate canvas traversed by paltry white light. Some men waxed poetic. Some ladies loved the brilliance. He quite despised their distance, their irrevocable departure.

The dark sky was nothing to look at, but the dark earth, that was a different story.

He espied mysterious shadows coming out of the cracks in the soil, swallowing up entire streets and houses, rendering them not only invisible but quite uninhabitable.

His imagination was bound to turn violent after a peculiar hour. Still, he was pleased with the outcome of the evening. He had chosen Meryton Inn over Netherfield Park and he was all the better for it.

An encounter with Darcy would have spoiled much of his temper.

Miss Elizabeth Bennet, however, was bound to suffer his absence the worst. He had planted great hopes, great joys in her with regards the ball. Now she must drink a bitter cup, like all ladies who depend on men for their enjoyment.

But as his mind tried to capture Elizabeth's lovely waist in a white muslin dress, he also wondered what Mary Bennet was wearing tonight. Would she be just as careless with her looks, or would a gathering of this splendor propel her to more propriety?

Perhaps her ugliness shone all the better under Bingley's chandeliers.

Having smoked his cigar, he turned back inside.

* * *

><p>It was vexing that the poor girl sitting on his bed was weeping. Even <em>more<em> vexing, they were not real tears. Merely the apologies due to his sex.

"So sorry, _Sar_," she said, instead of "Sir".

"Don't discompose yourself on my account. It was not your doing."

But the girl's shoulders kept shaking, wracked by spasms contrived with such agility that they threatened to undo her bodice.

"Ah, I did somethin' wrong! Please, I want to repair my mistake!"

Wickham's hand hovered over her weak shoulder, but at the last moment he pulled away and tied up his shirt. There was a chill in the room. It seeped through his boots and caused him to shudder.

There was a small mirror near the bed, perched atop an overturned wooden bucket. He bent down to smooth his hair. His eyes were covered in red webs, as if a spider had tried to settle in his cornea.

"There's no mistake to repair. You are perfectly lovely and did all you could to satisfy me, but I'm afraid…" he trailed off, looking over the small black hairs of his hands.

"Sar?"

"You are _too_ lovely. Too beautiful."

The girl peeked at him over her shoulder with the look of a child who had been done an injustice. Yet, she was not sure what the injustice _was_. He had reproached her beauty.

"You are kind, Sar…"

"No, no. You are. For a girl of your constitution and employment, those flaxen curls and that round cheek are too good to be true. Your skin shines without marks. Either you wash it constantly, or you must hide the imperfections well under the powder. The flesh is firm to the touch and your smell is bearable. And yet, yes, you are…dull."

The girl rose from the bed with some degree of feminine dignity and draped her threadbare shawl over her shoulders.

"Dull? Because…I am too lovely? How do you reckon, Sar?"

Wickham sighed, letting a playful smile dwell on his lips. "I _don't_. But since I find myself unable to perform well tonight, I must draw the inevitable conclusion that I require you to be a small degree plainer."

Mattie, for that was the young girl's name, pulled her shawl tighter and chewed on her lower lip in thought.

"I – I could do that, Sar. If you tell me how."

Wickham laughed shortly. "What a good sport you are!"

He made her wash her face again to rid it of any remnant maquillage and then he undressed and dressed her again to his liking. He made sure the nightdress and shawl bore the signs of neglect, cast on her frame with little care for her shapes. Her hair he pulled into a braid and made her pin it to her head until no stray lock was unsettled.

"Good. Now sit down in that chair. Here, let me give you a book."

Settled with a volume in her lap, Mattie was transformed into a doting daughter, reading her nightly prayers.

"Don't smile like a lamb. Scowl a little. Furrow your brow. That's right. Stick out your jaw. Good."

Mattie did her best to comply, although her scalp ached from the pins and her arms were numb from holding the book on her knees.

"Flip the pages. Read. Don't just pretend."

He was pleased with the general effect. He had created a living tableau. If only Denny were here to see, he could attest it was a blonde apparition of Mary Bennet herself. What a good laugh they would have on the subject. Mary Bennett in a parlour house. A mean-spirited little jibe. Mattie too might laugh if she knew the lady in question. But he could not ask his friend to join him, for there were rules in such establishments and one was not allowed to trespass them.

He sat down by the empty hearth and watched his little creation turn the pages with great purpose. She mumbled the words silently as she perused each line. She was truly a good girl. But her brow was beaded and her face was pained with concentration.

He frowned. "No, no. Don't make it look like an effort. Pretend you are much smarter than the author."

Mattie looked up for the first time in confusion.

"Sar?"

"Well. I suppose that's hard to convey. How about you say "I shan't give you the time of the day"? Can you utter that with conviction?"

Mattie licked her feverish lips. "I – I shan't give you the time of the day."

Wickham clicked his tongue. "Come now. You are doing so well. Do not embarrass yourself now. Again, and with feeling."

Mattie winced and took a deep breath. "I _shan't_ give you the time of the day."

"Better, but let's try a bit louder and make your expression fiercer. No! Not more passionate. More recalcitrant."

"Recalci…what?"

"Look at me as if I were a scoundrel, then."

Mattie was getting more and more confused. She rather resented the gentleman for wasting a good portion of the hour on such foolish theatricals. She had not eaten since morning and she sorely wanted to rest.

So, grunting a little from the pins in her head, she arched her brow and said, in her most clipped voice possible,

"I shan't give you the time of the day."

Wickham pursed his lips and remained silent, folding his arms over his chest, staring at a fixed point above her head.

At length, Mattie couldn't take it anymore. Asking him outright if he was ready to pursue their tryst was perhaps indelicate. Madame had taught her better. She set the book aside with a sigh and a toss of her head. She wondered if she should burst into tears again, to impress him. She had met several gentlemen with strange tastes, but they had never made her read and scowl.

"Well?"

She had not meant for the inquiry to sound so stringent. She had meant it with civility, but her back ached and she could no longer hold her head up. The rest of her body was numb.

She waited with fear and trepidation for the officer to spit at her feet and walk out of the room. What if he complained to Madame? Her entire frame started trembling with anticipation. Tears welled up in her eyes.

Wickham burst into laughter.

"Oh, good God! You don't think I want to…? No, no, I did not put you up to this to arouse my desire. I merely thought it an entertaining little exercise…I would never deprave myself in such a manner."

He laughed again, shaking his head as if to dispel the absurd notions Mattie had entertained.

"What I need is a good walk to clear my head."

He would not take his cigars, nor would he simply pace like a dog in a courtyard. He required a proper ramble to refresh himself and prepare for the day.

"Oh," she mumbled in surprise. "Then, you'll be leaving?"

He nodded his head cheerfully and deposited the money on her washstand.

* * *

><p>The fat wild shrubs bending in the cold wind reminded him of little wild boars. He had seen a pack of them, once, cross a forest path with their mother. Yet there was nothing in these empty fields, no creature with warm blood in this innocent landscape to remind him of the depths of wilderness. The light hues of dawn turned the scenery into a nursery room. It was rather meant for small babes and sweet virgins. He felt like a Pharisee, avowing faith where there was none. He rather liked it.<p>

Having reached a turnpike, he jumped off his horse and dusted his trousers. Perhaps a true walk was done on foot, but he could not so injure his boots.

He looked up at the violet clouds and let plumes of steam roll out of his mouth.

He was at the end of the world. Not that he had ever been at the beginning of it, either. He had never reached any great heights, but he had been contented to prevent others from reaching them. Suppose there was need for someone like that, too. Someone to weed out the weak.

The stars had disappeared for good. He snorted under his breath. They were beautiful, too.

Perhaps he really had grown tired of it. Beauty.

Or maybe it was only a fluke, a temporary bad spell. He had been rather morose about the Netherfield Ball, although he had no future humiliation to fear, for men who refused to meet other men due to a debt or slight were scorned, but men who refused to meet other men so that they could ease the debt and slight of their opponent, were revered.

Yet, he wished he had gone and shaken Darcy's hand, if only to see the look on his face. He still hungered for the Darcy name, sometimes. It came upon him from time to time like a shadow.

The neighing of horses into the distance brought him up short. A carriage was approaching.

Not wishing to be seen in such a careless state, he hopped onto his steed and trotted off to the side, until he was hidden quite well by the fat shrubs.

"Keep quiet, girls! Your father is resting! One would have thought dancing slowed down your tongues!"

The voices and whispers and giggles reached him despite the distance, for the silence was inexorable. He recognized Mrs. Bennet's wail of despair. But she was safely enclosed in the carriage as were her girls and their father. Whereas on top sat the driver and next to him –

A young girl was leaning against the man's arm, her head drooping in slumber. The coat had fallen slightly off her shoulders and her white dress looked grey and thin over her skin. Her hair was a bird's nest, disheveled but still carefully arranged in a hideous fashion.

She was not quite asleep yet, for she jumped from time to time at each jolt the carriage made. Her body seemed to rise and fall with each hole or stump the wheel overcame in its path. She opened her eyes briefly, only to close them again. She surveyed the shrubs they passed but did not notice him. Her brow was furrowed as she felt the first cold rays of sunshine touch her face.

She squinted and scowled, as if the sun had committed a great impertinence, but then her forehead was smooth again as she parted her lips and inhaled the frozen air which, with the advent of day, seemed to become more easy to breathe.

With a heavy sigh, she leaned her head against the driver's shoulder once more. The coat slipped further down her shoulders.

Wickham waited for the carriage to disappear around a hill before he came out of his hiding.

He rubbed his stubble with irritation. He needed a shave. He needed a bath. He needed to go back.

* * *

><p>Mattie had not expected to be called up from her blissful sleep, but Madame was jabbing her in the ribs quite painfully.<p>

"Wake yourself, child. You are required for duty. The last gentleman you served avowed he did not have you at all. No matter, he is willing to pay again."

She was considerably surprised to see herself sitting opposite the curious man who had called her 'too lovely' again.

He looked flushed. His walk must have done him well. He paced the room in wide steps, flinging his gloves and untying his waistcoat with haste.

Say it," he demanded stiffly. "What I told you to say previously."

Mattie had to shake her listless mind into order. There had been many things the man had said to her and none of them seemed to suit his present state of mind.

The silence was prolonged infernally as she searched her memory to supply his demand.

Wickham was growing more and more impatient with her stupid manners. Her blank expression irked him.

"I told you. Look at me as if you despised me," he urged, untying his cravat.

Mattie found it no great trial to cast him reproachful looks, for she was quite fed up with this game. And then, as if by magic, she remembered the desired report.

She stiffened and drawing herself up, she said without fail,

"I shan't give you the time of the day."

Wickham was pulling the cravat over his head, but he stopped quite suddenly and looked at her with a queer darkness in his eyes.

Mattie wondered if she should jump out of the chair or shout for help.

He was upon her before she had time to gather her wits and she was shocked to find herself thrust up against the wall as his body towered over hers with need.

He took her, burying his head in the nook of her neck.

He was not unkind, but he was quiet and serious, almost scaring her when he growled her name in her ear.

Only, no…it wasn't _quite_ her name. There was no "r" in Mattie.


End file.
